Behind her stood Daniel’s younger brother, Grant, with his arms crossed and his expression carefully arranged into solemn concern. But I knew Grant too well now. Three days after Daniel died, before I had even picked out a coffin, Grant had already asked whether Daniel’s life insurance policy included accidental death enhancement.
Not “How are you holding up?”
Not “Does Noah need anything?”
Just money.
I looked at Vivian and said nothing.
That seemed to irritate her more than tears ever could.
She wanted me hysterical.
She wanted me screaming.
She wanted the grieving widow collapsing publicly so everyone could nod and whisper that I was unstable, emotional, guilty.
Instead, I folded my hands in my lap and breathed slowly.
Because Daniel had taught me something important shortly before he died:
Never interrupt people while they are exposing themselves.
Vivian leaned slightly closer toward me, lowering her voice just enough for the front rows to catch every word.
“You should be grateful we’re even allowing you to sit with the family.”
For illustrative purposes only
That was when Noah moved.
At first I thought he was reaching for my hand.
Instead, he lifted Daniel’s phone.
My entire body went cold.
He held it carefully in both hands, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. His face was still soft with childhood, but his eyes—those eyes—were Daniel’s. Steady. Dark. Observant.
Older than any eight-year-old’s eyes should ever look.
“Noah,” I whispered nervously.
But he stood up.
